Down at the Rabbit Hole
by J-J-Sawyer-Phillips
Summary: Ridiculously kinky Captain Swan fic in honor of CS Kink Month. I will not apologize. Disclaimer: I do not own the characters.


…_they're sharing a drink they call loneliness,_

_but it's better than drinking alone…_

Emma walks into the Rabbit Hole for the first time to get a drink. Normally, she'd just head over to Granny's, but there's just something about the way she feels tonight that makes her want to avoid the normal cheery faces at the beloved diner. Truth be told, she wants to be surrounded by something different, something unfamiliar. After all the shit that went down in Neverland, you'd think she'd be craving a little normalcy. But in its own way, the dive bar is entirely comfortable and familiar to her; it reminds her of her old life, the one where she didn't give a damn and didn't get hurt. A swanky, jazzed-up version of "People Are Strange," floats out of the jukebox near the pool table and cigarette smoke hangs in the air like old drapes. The drink specials are written on a blackboard that's so covered in chalk it's practically white now, and ancient fliers for ladies' night are still offering Jell-o shots of all things. The low lighting and the dark, dank smells reminder her of all the shady, seedy places she would go hunting for bail jumpers. And even though a part of her is glad that she doesn't do that anymore, she finds that she misses the curious lack of pretension in hideouts like this…Even if it's only for an hour or so, she wants to shed away all of the constricting skins that are holding her down right now.

Mother. Henry had managed to survive Neverland somehow, escaping from Greg and Tamara, hiding out with Mermaids and Selkies of all creatures. But he'd also been scarred, his childhood cut short—by Neal's death, the constant threat of discovery and capture, and then Regina and Rumplestiltskin's near misses. Apparently, their magic worked just fine in that hell dimension… unfortunately, every successive spell cast made the magician weaker and weaker, draining them of life and vitality. Not that it had affected her, but then again, she hadn't been using her magic to turn Shadows and Lost Ones into Roman Candles. Despite being warned that healing spells were far too complex for her limited discipline, she'd brought them back from the brink, for Henry's sake. And now, the kid had terrible nightmares no matter which house he was in or how many lights were left on the dispel the ghosts in his mind.

Daughter. She and her parents had bonded, strangely enough. They had supported her when she had broken down, instinctively knowing she would need to. Emma had spent her entire life looking for her family, and just when she thought everything was going great, Henry had been taken. But their new rapport had come with a price—namely, Snow's persistent attempts to get her to talk about her feelings and her relationships. Primarily her failed romance with Neal, but also her growing friendship with a certain Captain. David had been less pushy, less touchy-feely; but she could sense that deep down, he was missing the kind of father-daughter connection that only comes with being there from day one. It was a silent, unbearable pressure, and it was driving her up the walls.

Sheriff. The moment they had gotten back… Well, coming home to a fully re-established war counsel, hell-bent on finding a way to restore magic to Anton's charred bean field had been interesting to say the least. The dwarves had found more fairy dust, but it wasn't enough for what they needed. And apparently, David's adoptive father and King Midas had banded together for a hostile take-over of the town. Thankfully, the council members—led by Belle, Granny, Archie, and Leroy—had managed to rally enough troops to suppress the rebellion; but plenty of people had been lost or injured during the intense street warfare, and a lot of homes and businesses had been destroyed. It was a cluster-fuck of epic proportions.

So, Emma sits down next to an old man at the bar who has a gin and tonic cradled close to his chest, hoping that there's enough Jack or Johnny behind the counter to quiet the voices for a little while. She orders two doubles and quickly slams the first, savoring the harsh fire that slides from her throat down to her belly and then all the way back up her spine. _"…faces come out of the rain, when you're strange; and no one remembers your name, when you're strange…"_

She lifts the second glass in a toast to the oblivious old man. "Here's to forgetting my own fucking name for a while."

A throaty chuckle sounds next to her right ear and a wall of heat is suddenly at her back. "As if that were even possible, lass."

Normally, she would control the shiver that his presence and words send skittering across every inch of her skin, but the whiskey already has a hold on her. "I don't know about that, Hook. Some cat must have dragged _your_ ass in out of the rain tonight, so why shouldn't the rest of the song come true?"

She throws back the rest of her double and motions the bartender for another. Killian Jones slides onto the stool next to her, smoothly, like he does everything else. She scoffs internally at the thought, but can't deny the truth of it. In the short amount of time they've been back in Maine, he's completely adapted to modern life and modern clothing. Mostly. He reaches into the pocket of his black leather pants and pulls out a stack of gold coins, placing it on the bar. _Who the fuck in Storybrooke sells pants like __**that**__?! Because, damn!_

"Just set down a bottle of rum for me, mate. And this should cover whatever the lady's drinking." The bartender doesn't flinch, doesn't blink, doesn't tell him that you need American dollar bills to buy your alcohol here; he just slips his hand over the doubloons and puts the requested bottle and a glass in their place. "Having a reputation across the realms for cruelty and barbarism tends to encourage people to see things your way rather quickly, princess."

"I'll pay for my own drinks, Hook. Thanks. I already owe you for the ride to Neverland and your help finding Henry; I don't like having debts hanging over my head."

"And just who says you're obligated to me in any way, love? I don't recall asking for any favors, or demanding payment for the… liberal use you made of my many considerable talents and services." His eyes shine with mischief as Emma finally glances his direction; a mistake, because now she can help but take in and appreciate how good he looks. She can tell from the cut, quality of leather, and the zipper that the pants are _definitely_ not the ones he wore on the ship. They also fit like a second skin, making her wonder how the hell he got anything into his pocket, let alone a ton of ancient coins. Black t-shirt, black button-down that he's left open, and black leather jacket complete his normal monochromatic look. It's a good color for him, but worse, he knows it.

"The fact that you haven't asked for anything just makes me more concerned; so while we're on the subject, what is it that you want, Hook?" Emma tosses back more whiskey, tongue sweeping out to catch the stray drops that fall on her lips. His eyes track the movement, but stay focused on her now glistening skin.

"For starters, I'll have you use the name I introduced myself with. If I'm to truly give up on my quest for revenge against Rumplestiltskin, I believe it's time to set the old alias aside. Especially with you. Second, stop acting like we weren't best mates there, lass. You used to enjoy drinking and having a laugh with me, and don't say it was the lack of company and the constant danger. But you've been off hunting down Midas and George all bloody day and night since we returned… So, I've missed you, love. Is that so hard to believe?"

Emma feels a stab of guilt at his words. He's right—practically every night when everyone else went to sleep, Killian Jones had stayed up with her so she didn't have to drink alone. Rum had lead to stories about their respective pasts, his as a corsair and hers on both sides of the law. It had also led to games of Pieces-of-Eight (quarters being in short supply on the Jolly Roger), truth or dare, and singing contests… He'd managed to help her forget the seriousness of the situation and have fun for a change, all while keeping his flirting to a minimum. But the moment she had gotten Henry back home, he'd returned somewhat to his normal overly-amorous self. Combined with her old feelings and new ones regarding the pirate… well, it had been easier to throw herself into work and pretend to be busy just so she could avoid him.

But she knows that giving in to him, telling him that he's right will only make him more overbearing and persuasive. "You've just missed having a captive audience." She reaches for her next glass, but he puts his hand over the top of it.

"Lying to yourself again, princess? I thought we were done with attempting to deceive each other."

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"You kissed me, Emma." He quietly lets the words sink in to her alcohol buzz, enough that she knows that the bartender heard before he less than stealthily walked away. She mutters a curse and drops her head into her hands. "All the lies in the world won't make me disappear, love. _You_ cornered _me_ in _my_ cabin, backed _me_ up against the wall, and kissed _me_. You can't go back to pretending after something like that, lass. But more to the point, I won't let you."

His good hand clamps around her arm, managing to both lift and spin her toward him at the same time. There's more whiskey in her system than anything else, so her legs wobble, sending her straight into his arms. "What d'you think you're doing?"

"Claiming my reward and clearing your debt. All I want is for you to dance with me, sweet Emma." He reaches around to the hand that grabbed his waist when she fell and pulls it to his chest, leaving the other on his left arm. He snakes his hook around her back, pressing her closer as they rock back and forth to the music.

"Can't dance, Jones. You saw how long it took me to walk on your ship without falling on my ass."

"Well luckily for you, I _can_. Just let me lead, love. I'll take care of everything." True to his word, he never lets her go and doesn't let her trip and fall. Her body fits perfectly with his, surrounded by his arms and his heat. She hasn't really had the need or a chance to think about it in a long time, but it always surprises her how warm he is compared to her. _"…like a lazy ocean hugs the shore, hold me close, sway me more. Other dancers may be on the floor, dear, but my eyes will see only you…"_

The words of the song swirl briefly through her mind, but she's much too distracted to focus on the music. His eyes are like deep pools of water, except hot and boiling intensely; she's always been afraid that if she fell into them, she'd either burn up or drown. And right now, neither seems like a bad way to go. "See anything you like, lass?" His words distract her, pulling her gaze and her thoughts down to his lips. She knows that he'll taste like rum, dark and spicy, that his tongue will feel hot and sweet against hers. She bites down on her lower lip and moans, remembering just how good that one kiss made her feel, how much she'd wanted more.

"Gods, Emma, why are you fighting this? Do you think I can't tell exactly how much you want me? You think I can't smell your desire? I can sense it, just under your perfume, love." He slips his hand down her ass, fingers toying with the edge of her too-short skirt, flirting near the top of her thigh-high tights. "If I touched you, I'd bet my ship that you'd already be wet from all that need that's been building up inside you. Would you like that, lass? Do you want me to find out right here, right now whether or not you're aching for me?"

She can't stop the trembling in her whole body, or what his light touch and his words are doing to her. He's rolled his hips forward into hers more than once, so she knows that the primal sexual need flowing through the air isn't one-sided. She whimpers when the tip of one finger brushes the silky skin of her thigh. Gripping her tighter with his left arm, he reaches up and wraps her long ponytail around his hand. He watches her eyes start to glaze over with pleasure as he pulls her hair smoothly, yet firmly, and knows with sudden clarity what she really wants from him. He bends down closer to her ear, lips and tongue softly teasing the shell and lobe. "Do you want me to just take what I want from you, sweet Emma? Shall I pluck your strings as I choose? Is that what you desire from me?"

Her voice comes out in the neediest, sexiest whisper he's ever heard. "God, yes." He tugs harshly, tightening his grip on her hair.

"Yes what, princess?"

"Yes, Killian. I want you to take me."

He growls in her ear before licking the skin right behind it, causing her to shiver even more. "Normally, I prefer "captain," love, but I think this time I'll make an exception. I've been longing to hear you say my name just like that, and I'm going to thoroughly enjoy making you use it over, and over, and over. And over." The song ends, but their dance is far from done.

He keeps his hook and left arm around her waist, practically dragging her out of the Rabbit Hole and into the night. As soon as they make it outside, he pins her back against the brick wall, kissing her roughly. She moans around his tongue, loving the hot, spicy taste of him, a combination now of rum and whiskey. Just as unexpectedly as he started it, he ends the kiss, pulling her back into his body and striding quickly down the dark streets toward the docks. In no time at all, they are climbing aboard his ship; he offers her his hand, a gentleman as always. But instead of helping her step down onto the deck, he uses her temporary height advantage to wrap her legs around his waist. Emma lets out a little yelp of surprise; she only does it because she's been drinking, and he thinks it's the most adorable thing she's ever done. But he refuses to let his softer emotions out with her just yet. She wants him to dominate and control her now…the time for more gentle persuasion will be later.

He puts her back against the mainmast, grinding his hips up into hers. "Do you have any idea how often I pictured us right here, lass? Having you absolutely, gloriously bare beneath the sunlight or starlight? Hearing you crying out in pleasure along with the harmony of the waves and the wind? I went to bed hard every night after you left my cabin, wanting more than anything to drag you back and fuck you senseless. And yet every night, you came back, knowing what you did to me, leaving me unsated, unsatisfied. Didn't you? No fucking lies tonight, Emma! Every word that passes through those lips had better be truth."

He pulls her head back, forcing her to look at him. "I didn't want to know, but I did. I was afraid to feel, and I knew I couldn't hide it from you. So I kept pretending because pretending is safe."

"And how safe do you feel now, princess? Are you afraid of me?"

"Yes. Because you make me feel alive, Killian. I have been surviving for so long that I've forgotten what really living feels like. And I'm terrified that once I start again, you'll leave me."

He kisses her roughly again, their moans and whimpers ringing, intertwining in the night air. "I've waited for you for hundreds of years, love. And I've spent the last six months and more fighting for you, so I bloody well won't be packing it in any time soon. You hear me, Swan? I'm going to play you tonight, make you sing for me. And when I'm done, you'll be so absolutely fucking ruined that no one else will do. Only fools put their mark where other's can see—I'm going to brand your very soul, princess, and you will damn well love every minute of it."

He lets her stand for a second before kneeling down and tipping her over his shoulder. Emma giggles. "Isn't this the part where my bosoms should be heaving and I swoon in your arms? Kind of hard to do with a shoulder bone in my stomach." He slaps her ass, catching the exposed skin at the tops of her thigh-highs, causing her to moan out his name. When he finally enters the cabin, he kicks the door shut behind them and sets her back on her feet. He ensures that she's steady, but then stalks away from her over to his desk. He rummages through the middle drawer, shooting her a warning glare to stay put when she starts to walk toward him. Silently, she watches him as he goes around to all of the lanterns, lighting them and adjusting the wicks, all without a word. Once he finishes with the last one, he faces her.

He cocks his head to the side, as if studying her of the angles of the light. He nods to himself, satisfied, then goes back to his desk, sits in his chair, and props up his feet. "You will obey every order without question or commentary. You will use my proper name, or my rank if you prefer. You will only speak when I give you leave, and no lies. This is your last chance to back out, Swan; and even though it pains me to be on this side of the room, I do not want to risk any possibility of coercion or misunderstandings between us, darling. Do you accept these terms?"

The intensity, the command in his voice only contribute to the pulsing need in her belly. "Yes, Killian. Please-"

In an instant he is by her side again, hand fisted around her ponytail. "You'll do plenty more begging before the night is out, lass. Before we begin, I imagine you'll say the word "stop" more than once, although "don't" will probably be attached to it somewhere. Safe word?" His grin actually reminds her of Ruby, wolfish and hungry.

"Ocean."

"Good. Now then, lass. Strip for me." He leans back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, watching her expectantly. Emma nods, but then flashes him a wicked grin of her own before sashaying over to his desk. She stops about a yard away, sliding her right foot up along her left leg and kicking it up to rest on the solid edge. Slowly, she runs both hands down the sides of her thigh to her knee, the left catching the zipper and letting it come undone. She slips her foot out, pointing her toes and tossing the boot to the side. She repeats the same slow removal with the left, knowing that he's getting a peek at her black, lacy panties for the first time. She turns around, leaning firmly against the edge. The coat and scarf hit the floor quickly, but she takes her time with the shirt, sliding her hands along her stomach and breasts.

Killian hasn't moved a millimeter, but his breathing is becoming shallower and more rapid. Hooking her thumbs in the band of her tights, she rolls down and removes one and then the other. Down to just her skirt, bra, and panties, he finally moves away from the wall. Tugging at the zipper at her side, he moves back around the desk. "This next love, then leave the rest on."

She grins to herself, letting her chest follow her hands as she's slipping the skirt down her legs. But she turns around quickly when she hears the clanking of something metal hitting the desk. He's on his knees, clearly securing the end of a chain somewhere, when she recognizes the manacle attached. AND the handcuffs sitting next to it. She almost asks him if that's what she thinks it is, but remembers just in time that she's not allowed to speak. She looks at him and sees him watching her, a slight pout forming. "Damn! I was really looking forward to punishing you for a slip of the tongue. Well, soon enough I suppose. These, are because you seemed quite fond of using them at the infirmary—even after you knew I could pick them. And this, is to give you a visual reminder for whenever you find yourself chained to your desk at work."

He locks the handcuffs around her wrists, careful to leave some give, kissing the palm of each hand before placing them flat on the wooden surface. Next, he closes the manacle around the small chain that links her cuffs together, which reaches just to the edge of the desk when pulled taut. There's nothing within her reach that can help her pick any of these locks; she is entirely at his mercy. Instead of feeling trapped or frightened, Emma is insanely turned on at the thought of being helpless with this man; because, in a way, she never had a prayer of escaping this moment with him. Destiny. Inevitability. As the savior, these words frighten her; with Killian, they make all the sense in the world.

"Don't fight a single sound or reaction, Swan. I want to know exactly how what I'm doing to you is making you feel." He nudges at her leg with one of his booted feet, indicating to spread them wider apart. She gasps and her fingernails dig into the wood when he thrusts his hips into her ass, letting her feel his erection through his leather and her lace. He slides the cool metal curve of his hook up her spine, sending chills across her skin and making her nipples even harder. She drops her head and whimpers at the torture, cautiously rubbing back against him to feel his hardness and his heat near her core. He slaps her ass roughly, forcing a cry from her lips. "You only think you're ready and eager now, princess…"

Emma loses all track of time. The only measures are the things that Killian is doing to her body: spanking her roughly, then running a soothing hand along the reddened skin; undoing her bra and letting it remain where it falls, at her elbows; massaging and pinching her nipples with his good hand, or rolling steel against them as they strain, impossibly hard for the merest touch; lightly slapping the front of her wet panties, flickering touches to her clit that have her wound impossibly tight; talking all the while in detail about every little thing before he does it, heightening her anticipation and the sensations when he finally puts action to his words. Over and over again, she says his name, begging him.

"Say it, lass. What is it you want from me?" He pulls her head back at a painful angle, but Emma is lost in the haze already—any change is pure ecstasy.

"Please, Killian. Please take me. Please fuck me, Killian, because I need you so badly." Then, blissfully, she hears him swear under his breath and his clothes hitting the floor. He tugs at her hips, ripping the panties off of her with his hook and slamming his cock inside her. She screams his name, an orgasm hitting her at the feel of him fully inside her. But instead of letting her float on the high, he forces her to ride it hard, thrusting deep and hitting that perfect spot over and over.

"Gods, princess! So hot, wet, and tight. Tell me you've been dreaming about this."

"Yes, Killian, every fucking night. Even when we were on this ship, sleeping on that shitty bunk, I thought about coming back in here and letting you do this to me!"

He presses his chest to her back, still pumping into her ruthlessly, changing the angle of his penetration. He buries the tip of his hook in the desk next to her hand, using it as leverage to thrust harder still; he's all but lifting her off her feet every single time, forcing her up on tiptoe. At the same instant, he bites down into her left shoulder and pinches her clit. "Killian!" If her first orgasm was a thunderstorm, this one is a tsunami. She clenches so tight around him that he has no choice but to join her. Stars explode behind both their eyes, and he catches her before she can collapse to the floor. Despite being entirely blind from the intensity of it all, he manages to drape them both across his desk before temporarily blacking out himself.

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She wakes up to the feel of cool linen sheets beneath her back and a particularly sensual pair of lips brushing along her wrist. She opens her eyes and hot blue ones are watching her intently. "Welcome back home, princess."

There's so much happiness and love in those four words… The old Emma Swan would be panicked, running for the hills by now. But she only smiles up at him, brushing the longer strands of hair away from his face before leaning up to capture his lips with hers. "It's good to be home."


End file.
